Flecks
by nalagaOcean777
Summary: The times were indeed dark, as seemingly absolute as the depths of an onyx. But even in the shroud of midnight, the tiny stars of hope cast their light into the murk, and little flecks of color jumped from the blackness of those days, brief and beautiful.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Well, I _did_ promise somebody out there that I was going to contribute a bit more to this section, so…well, hope you all enjoy! :) Yet again, I'm going on a drabble set here, though I honestly don't know how long it's going to be. Not that it really matters, then again. Drabbles are weird like that. :d

But anyways, onward with the story!

Disclaimer: In no shape or form do I own Tales of Phantasia or anything related therein. I just like making up the little scenes between that might have happened, but probably never happened. XD All rights go to Namco, but of course. The lucky ducks. :\

* * *

**-Thief-**

_Def: one who steals, especially one who intends to escape notice _

* * *

The bench was warm against his back, the air was crisp with the faintest tang of the sea, and the nearby fountain tinkled and chuckled softly, its damp music mingling gently with the ever-present murmur of the busy going abut their business. The echoes of hasty foot on cobblestone path made their rounds ceaselessly, bouncing against wind-bleached stone and coast-damp alley before winging into the heavens and joining the mournful cries of the circling seagulls. Creaks wove their raspy patterns around the wheels of meandering carts, laughter drifted in golden clouds over the daring exploits of young children, and a stiff wind further up to the sky demanded the vigilance of surrounding flags and pennants, snapping them to attention repeatedly with every stern, salty gust.

Although by all means he still favored the secure, quiet placidness that Euclid had to offer, he supposed there was something oddly soothing about the constant movement and bustle of a city as large as Venezia. Granted, he'd probably never really get used to it, but something about the simple knowledge of human activity and company, no matter how aloof or abundant, somehow offered a measure of peace he hadn't expected to find, with the times and circumstances as they were now. The prospect of the long journey ahead and the grim tasks yet to be done still loomed, yes, but for now they could be forgotten, if only for a little while, and he had gladly accepted the opportunity for all its worth.

In the darkness of the brim of his hat his consciousness now drifted lazily, light dreams flickering beneath his eyelids, the rhythm of his breathing calm and even, regulated little in the gentle grasp of sleep. Save for the muddle of sounds and sensations that gave indication of the outside world, which his subconscious recorded and tracked accordingly, he was completely oblivious to his surroundings. The short nap he had intended to embark upon had long since shifted into something deeper, the strains of the day gently taking their toll at last. Sleep had not been his intention, maybe, but his body had taken charge as his mind wandered, and the undeniable call for rest had been sent and obeyed. Thus he now dozed in a pleasant darkness, head blank of all thoughts and worries, balanced on a final thread of outer awareness only due to the hubbub of the city and the steady, distant murmur of the summon spirits, a muted vocal orchestra rising and falling at the back of his mind.

There was the flighty piping of Sylph, the placid musing of Undine, the blustery chorus of Gnome, the proud mental flare of Efreet. There was the peaceful resonance of Luna, the unintelligible thrum of Volt, the good-natured rumble of Maxwell, and various others after that. The vastly different voices blended together and drifted apart as each spirit traversed their respective plane of existence, their unconscious inner monologues and emotions a constant, never-ending stream that would not be suppressed. The voices, intentionally broadcasted or not, were the channeling result of the Pact Rings he now currently wore, a consequence of the bond he now shared with his spirits as their summoner. They were sometimes softer, sometimes louder, sometimes so blurry he couldn't string the words if he tried, sometimes so clear he couldn't ignore them if he wanted, though they always retained a detached, watery quality, as if he were listening from a great windswept distance. Which was probably a good thing. Lesser men would have likely already lost their minds as it were, and he himself found that, so long as he did not pay them too much attention, the voices did not affect his awareness of surroundings or ability to think. There was really no reason to waste effort trying to listen to them anyhow, as the thoughts were neither directed towards him nor his business to know. Privacy was a policy shared by humans and spirits alike, after all, and nothing good would possibly come of the angering a omniscient being. Even if he were to try, he doubted he'd be able to understand much of it, for he had learned already that spirits seemed to hold a different mentality and outlook of existence, which warped and twisted their views and opinions into emotions and thoughts profoundly strange to the mortal mind.

Some things were really better left untouched.

And, for all the complications this…odd frame of mind often brought forth, he had already grown accustomed to it, after the initial task of properly wrapping his mentality around the new condition had succeeded. As he had gradually learned to function with them, the voices had even come to attain a measure of reassurance to his conscience as a whole. That the spirits were always just within reach of contact, should they be needed, put a certain part of him at ease like nothing else.

Which was why the sudden silencing of Origin's grave, sharp tones was so jarring.

The abrupt absence produced the effect reminiscent of a notable instrument being inexplicably stoppered in the middle of a flowing song, hitching the tempo for the briefest of moments and sowing a note of unmistakable discord that remained even as the band attempted to plow on against the unexpected vacancy of one of their number. The steady, serious narration of the pinnacle of all creation had been cut off in such a fashion, the first syllable of Origin's last severed word echoing briefly by itself before the opening of the void became clear. The effect was truly startling.

So much so that, before he had even properly registered the reason for his alarm, his eyes snapped open.

Despite the tilted angle of the wide brim of his hat, he found himself locking gazes with another pair of eyes. A large, brown pair. A pair filled with the kind of panic equal to that of a child who is found with his hand in the cookie jar.

As he stared, he found himself beholding the face of just such a child, a dirty face graced with a tangled mop of black hair, a face connected to the scrawny limbs and long-fingered hands of an urchin. And as the hands came to view, he found himself gazing at a ring, a band of warm gold inset with a large diamond that glistened like a frosted star in the girl's muddy palms.

He returned his gaze to the child's face, expression unfathomable. The child stared back, eyes wide, limbs tensed, like a rabbit caught in a bright light.

Then the urchin jerked backwards, at the same time rising upright from her kneeling position at the foot of the bench, where she had squirreled the ring from his own lax fingers as he slept. Although, before she could so much as take another step, her progress was hampered by an extended foot, and soon she was facedown on the cobblestones.

Frantically scrabbling back to her feet, she took off down the street with a frightened squeak, not so much as offering a second glance backwards.

And, with a sigh, he rose from his bench, wincing slightly at the bruised toe he now found himself sporting. The minuscule discomfort was forgotten, however, as he grasped the brim of his hat and bent downwards, retrieving the dropped ring from the dirt of the streets and slipping it back on his index finger with the nonchalance of a man who has just suffered a mild inconvenience. As soon as the diamond Pact Ring made contact with his skin, Origin's voice returned in a cascade of echoes that solidified into a steady voice, sounding completely unperturbed and most likely unaware of the narrowly avoided mishap that had just taken place.

Folding his arms, he nodded to an elderly woman who had watched the whole spectacle with unconcealed amusement, adjusted his hat one last time, and started off down the street, curious to see how the others were faring on their shopping spree and wondering how much time had passed during his nap.

* * *

A/N: Hehe, mainly I just wanted to explore the workings behind Claus's relationship between the summon spirits. The thievery thing sort of formed by itself, but I went along with it anyhow, and I guess the whole thing turned out okay. Though there are no exacts, this takes place roughly sometime in the Future, and he doesn't have the Daemonium spirits or Shadow and Aska as of yet. Just thought to clarify all that. :)

Of course, if this has even the slightest inkling of truth in it, I'd respect Claus all the more for it. _I'd_ have probably gone insane, to have a whole plethora of voices babbling at the back of my mind for any length of time. You'd have to admire his endurance. :O

Anyways, I hope this first chapter turned out satisfactory. Updates should be pretty timely, as I already have additional chapters written, but one never knows with me… D: I suppose only time will tell that story.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Once again, Tales of Phantasia is not mine to stake a claim of ownership upon. Nor the entire Tales series, for that matter. They're entirely somebody else's.

* * *

**-Wind-**

_Def: air moving across the surface of a planet or through an atmosphere at a speed fast enough to be noticed _

* * *

The wind sang, each pristine note imbued with the joy of all things fresh and flighty and free. The tightly interwoven laces of pure air rippled and coiled, rushing past her like an invisible riptide, clinging mischievously to the various tassels and folds of her clothing as it swept by, and brought with it tales of vast blue oceans and rolling fields of emerald, lakes of glass and mountains of silver frost. Closing her eyes, she grinned, partaking in the stories that were breathed into her ears, snatching what flecks of scent and sound that she could gather from the muffled whisper and hiss of each fleeting gust.

Having her fill of the patchwork tales after a short while, she opened her eyes again and giggled as the wind reprimanded her with a particularly powerful updraft, buoying her several yards higher into the glowing, pristine dome of the heavens. Grabbing the opportunity, she surged even higher with the draft of solid air at her tail, swerving into a 360 degree turn with an expert haul on the chafed pole of wood grasped between her hands and dipping back down another couple of feet before pulling up to her original level with a perfectly timed tug in the right direction. Giddy with the laughter of the wind and the crystalline chill of the air, a wave of daring took hold of her limbs - as it often did - and she leaned forward against the jetstream, applying a burst of speed and streaking forward like an arrow. In an instant the world became a rushing pastel blur, the blinding white of clouds and the clean blue of the sky and the bright star of the sun blending together into a glowing curtain that never seemed to end.

This was where she truly belonged - this was what life was all about. The rush of the air, the silver tapers of the clouds, and the patchwork quilt of the world spread out beneath her in its rich greens and browns, a radiant gem too large to claim as one's own. Here gravity had no authority…no, here, the wind was law, and the law was that of freedom and flight, the air a shifting blanket to catch those brave enough to join in the fun. Surely nothing in all the world could possibly match the beauty of this sky. And nothing could possibly replace the rugged sturdiness of the broomstick beneath her, the delightful surge and swell of mana as she manipulated it to her will, the task so easy and effortless it had long since become second nature. With sheer instinct being the only calculator she needed, she could work her magic and the spells imbued in this broom in tandem with the whims of the wind, to gloriously exhilarating results. She'd been flying since she was a small child, and the tricks and stunts she had accumulated during that span of time were all but innumerable. Needless to say, she had reason to be quite proud of her prowess.

…No, she wouldn't trade this for anything in the world, not the brightest gold or the greatest fame. This was a privilege that had no price, no boundary by which to overstep.

This was hers and hers alone.

The feel of her hair whipping behind her and the air encasing her in a liquid embrace was wonderful, but she soon remembered where she was. Reluctant, she swerved around, tracing a huge curve in the skies, and sped back to an area within range of her companions, who could only cover so much distance with their own clunky Techbirds. Even during the journey back the chances for tricks were endless, though, and she wouldn't surpass them for the world - she bobbed and swung about with the whims of the constantly shifting air, increased her speed with another half-minded nudge against the invisible streams of mana that carried her, and pulled into a perfectly executed back flip. As momentum carried her upside down she briefly let go of her broomstick, allowing it to loop back underneath her as she enjoyed one second of weightlessness and two more of freefall. Completing the flip, alighted on the broomstick once more as it bobbed into place beneath her, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Which it was.

She resumed her journey back to the others, unable to quench the huge grin on her features if she'd wanted to.

As the sleek silver of the Techbirds rose back into view, silver daytime stars against the brightness of the sun, she lined up next to the nearest one and leaned back against her seat, hands laced behind her head, completely untouched by the vertigo that might have gripped others at the possibility of falling off such an unsteady thing as a broomstick, to meet the ground so many miles below. Satisfied to resort to plain old gliding for the moment, she admired the painted beauty of the sky above for a few minutes, before glancing over to the neighboring Techbird beside her.

The passenger of the said Techbird returned her glance with one of his own, and she could easily see the irritation painted on his sharp features. His blue hair whipped out behind him with the force of the wind, and the white sash that was usually wrapped securely around his throat had come loose by a couple of coils and was now streaming like a scarf from his airborne profile. She considered the amusing qualities of this scene for a moment before treating him to one of her brightest taunting smiles. It was plain to see that he was already annoyed at her more recent antics, but the temptation was too good to pass up.

Indeed, as she had anticipated, he seemed to know the exact reason for her grin, and his gaze narrowed into a trademark glare that flung invisible daggers. She could just hear his exact words loud and clear in her imagination, telling her off, like he was probably dying to do right now. And, of course, her grin just widened some more.

She stuck her tongue out at him, and took delight in the way his features contorted in fury.

* * *

A/N: Ah, it felt good writing this chapter. I dunno, it's just…so exhilarating and full of life. The details were so fun to write. :D I'm not sure why, but after this I feel a good deal happier…

Arche is such an awesome character. XD


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Well…you all know the drill. I suppose I shouldn't even bother.

* * *

**-Fever-**

_Def: a body temperature that is abnormally high, usually caused by bacterial or viral infections and commonly accompanied by shivering, headache, and an increased pulse rate._

* * *

It was a small room, rather plain and threadbare by most standards, but it had served its purpose well enough. It had a table, it had chairs, and, most fundamentally of all, it had a bed. As far as she was concerned, that was more than enough.

It was nightfall, and for the moment the confined space was thick with a strange aroma of apples and a sharp tang of spices, all arising from a stew brewing in a tiny kettle hung over the even tinier fireplace. For the moment, the hearth was the only source of light in the darkness of the room, the dancing orange flames keeping the encroaching shadows confined to the corners and the rough edges of the floorboards. All was silent save the crackling of the miniature conflagration, the rustle of clothing as she moved from place to place, the tinkle of water in the washbasin she was currently working, and the breathing of the bed's inhabitant, which was light and faint, as if each intake of air were a small struggle for his lungs.

With the uniform expertise of a person who has imitated such a task many times in the course of life, she rinsed the damp cloth one last time and wrung it out with a twist of her wrist, shaking it to dispose of the last water droplets before neatly folding it into fourths. Moving away from the edge of the scarred table, which was cluttered with various small cups and parcels and herbs and poultices, she moved to the side of the bed and soundlessly laid the cloth against her patient's forehead, feeling the skin first before applying the article of wool. Troubled, she drew back as her mind turned over the results of his temperature, which was still alarmingly high, if the warmth still lingering in her bare palm was any testament.

It had been almost two days now, and still his fever had refused to break.

It wasn't as if she'd never dealt with fevers before - far from it. Her mother had groomed her well in the arts of healing, teaching her not just the divine arts but the nature of illness, disease, and measures one could take against these ailments. Even divine power could only do so much, after all. External wounds were one thing, but the subtle stealth of internal sickness was another thing entirely, and even the most powerful of healers could not rely on the compliance of heavenly forces alone to alleviate such things. The reach of divine power had its limits, and for everything else, there was naught for it but the good old-fashioned healing of mortal ken - potions, brews, tender care, and patience.

Despite the nature of her training, however, this particular case had so far eluded all of her previous methods of exorcism. It persisted as if determined to torment its victim to the end…but she would not have that. That much she knew. If she failed here and now, so much more would be lost. There was simply too much at stake.

And, once again, the same sentence plagued her tired thoughts once again.

_If only he'd told us _sooner…

The young man now bedridden before her had been hale and hearty mere days ago - or, at least, he had been wearing the guise of the healthy until his body could endure the strain no longer. No, this illness had persisted for almost two weeks, if his current condition was anything to judge by…two weeks in which he had forged on, silent, uncomplaining, careful in his attempts to keep his true health veiled from his companions. It still slightly irritated her that his pride should demand such things of him - the sheer stupidity of his actions had nearly gotten himself killed. If she hadn't noticed the strange flush in his cheeks and the unsteadiness of his stride that day, why, he would have gone right on fighting, even with his senses completely addled and his strength a frail shadow of its previous fullness. The foolishness of his ploys still made her cringe inside.

Even these last few days, unable to rise from the bed by his own power, he drifted in and out of consciousness, and during his brief moments of awareness he was always trying to voice his protest, insisting he was alright, saying that they shouldn't be wasting time over such a minor hitch in his health, demanding they move on. And then he'd fall asleep halfway through his feeble tirade because even _that_ was too exhausting, leaving her shaking her head and applying another towel to his forehead in exasperation. His fever would rage on, burning him up inside and out, while he shivered beneath the covers as if he were perpetually cold.

Sword, shield, plates of his armor, and other unnecessary layers of his clothing were now currently folded or arranged tidily in one corner, his red headband knotted securely around one of the bedposts, while a bag of the party's supplies and restoratives rested among the other objects of the table, half depleted of its original store of gels. Even now, an apple gel was melting in the kettle of herbs and water over the fire, and she settled down in a nearby chair, content to wait for the mixture to heat while her thoughts scoured her memory for possible solutions to the current problem.

She did not react when her patient stirred slightly, the first major movement he'd made all day, and she was still deep in her musings when he mumbled something, the words too slurred and faint to make sense of. Recently he had ceased complaining, or for that matter being awake in general, and instead slept indefinitely and muttered opinions of his fragmented dreams that only he could hear. He had been completely unaware of the outside world all day, and did not respond to herself or the concerned voices of their companions any longer; although this was no cause for immediate worry, it still indicated that the illness was only increasing in strength, which _was_ cause enough for her to try even harder.

She looked up only when he moved again, turning over completely and murmuring rapidly all the while, and even as she watched the towel slipped off his forehead and vanished in the folds of the bed covers.

Sighing, she stood up and walked back to the bedside, retrieving the damp cloth before grasping her charge by the shoulder and gently maneuvering him back into a posture that wouldn't restrict his breathing so much. He had opted to curl on his side in his sleep, and now she laid him on his back and tilted his head before replacing the towel, already lukewarm from the heat of his forehead. Weary, she paused for a moment, gazing at his flushed features, so tired and helpless in the grasp of the illness, such a contrast to the healthy complexion and confidence that his face had always carried before. Now she felt as if she were tending to a small child trapped in a nightmare he could not awaken from, and the illusion was further supported when his troubled murmuring was silenced at her touch, as if comforted by a fellow human presence amid his unearthly dreams. Looking down, she noticed that the covers were now twisted tightly around him, and he was clutching the topmost edge with whitened knuckles. His breathing had grown heavy and ragged, and the neutral expression he had previously been wearing had shifted into one of strain, distress.

Gazing blindly at him, with her own thoughts carving paths through her head, it took her a moment to realize that his eyes were open.

For a wild moment she found herself overcome with surprise - awake already? But with the fever holding him in such a powerful embrace, surely that couldn't be so?

And then she realized that the eyes staring at her…staring _through_ her…were far from awake. They were wide but clouded, little pieces of sky shrouded in blurry veils of mist, and they gazed sightlessly at something else, something unreachable and far away.

Suddenly there was a hand closing around her wrist in an iron, trembling grip, and the look on his face had transcended from discomfort to an absolute desperation so powerful it was almost alien, gracing the brave features she had known so well. …Or had she known them at all? Looking at him now, it were almost as if a thin mask had fallen away, and a magnitude of some sort of forbidden emotion were flowing out without the wearer realizing it.

She didn't know what it might have been…but the anguish painted on his features, the unleaded panic in his eyes, all of it caused a chill to settle heavy on her limbs, rendering her all but immobile. It seemed as if he were looking directly at her, and yet seemed to lock eyes with someone else, someone different.

And then he spoke.

"…Mom?"

A single second, and then a pang tore through her heart, a terrible thorn of pity and sadness that flared throughout her being, draining all the color from her face as the realization struck. Just the way he had _said_ it….in such a shaking, fraught voice that seemed to almost _plead_…

He honestly thought that she was his mother.

The same mother that had died in his arms in the village of Toltus.

She didn't know what to do. What could she do? She couldn't pull away - his grasp was so tight - but what could she say? Of all the problems she had expected to confront today, this had certainly not been one of them. For a moment she was simply speechless.

The silence did not seem to fare well with him, however, and his eyes took on a mournful hue that blended with the panic already there, creating a gaze of absolute desolation. He clung to her wrist as if it were a lifeline, and all of the years of accumulated strength he had gained in his training of the sword seemed to clamp around the joint, rendering her fingers numb. For a moment it seemed he would sit upright, and then his tensed back relaxed beneath the weight of fatigue, a weight he could not fight for all the world. Instead he continued to gaze at her, at somebody else, as if he beheld a beloved apparition that was fading even as it had appeared.

"Mom…" His voice wavered, already a hoarse whisper that seemed in itself a great struggle to force into being. "Mom, I…I'm sorry. I'm so, so _sorry_…"

Horror tore into her chest as she watched a veil of tears further cloud his sightless eyes, tears that she knew he were trying desperately to hold back, even now. Suddenly she found herself overcome with an urge, and urge to do _something_, anything. It was so clear that he was in so much pain…

"…H-Hey." Try as she might, she couldn't help but notice how her voice had somehow become as weak as her patient's, but persevered despite, leaning down and gingerly patting his shoulder with her free hand. She had no idea if this was the right thing to do, but she had to try all the same. "Shh. Calm down. It's…it's alright, it's okay now…"

He drew a few more ragged breaths, for a moment it seemed the tears had subsided, to her relief. He seemed aware of the words she spoke, although she was unsure if he knew who it was that actually spoke them. Instead he weakly shook his head, or tried to.

"No. No, it's not okay. I - I wasn't…strong enough…"

"Don't talk like that." The words were out before she could stop them, but she instantly knew they echoed her thoughts perfectly. He thought he wasn't strong enough? He, who had slain hundreds of monsters and combated demons and could wield sword, spear and axe with a grace and power that put most knights to shame; who had drawn the courage to name the Demon King himself as the man he vowed to kill; a mere boy of seventeen no matter how hard he tried to hide it, taking authority for their whole party and making groundbreaking decisions left and right, decisions on which lives hung; guiding them towards a purpose that, when looked at in context, was absolutely ridiculous and nigh impossible; all with unwavering confidence amid his own sea of doubts?

Claiming himself to be weak?

She frowned at him, for a second not caring if he couldn't really see her. "Strength does not come whenever you ask for it. You did what you could, when you could, with the circumstances of the time. It had nothing to do with strength. Fate played its hand, and when Fate declares its path there is no stopping it."

His eyebrows came together in a guise of confusion, and suddenly he seemed more like himself again. The desperate terror and pain seemed to recede a little, and his questioning expression seemed to bring back a shadow of his true personality, the one she had come to know and count on. Relief flooded her at the sight of it.

"But…" he began feebly, though his argument seemed to already be wavering even as he spoke.

She made the decision for him.

"No. Not another word out of you." She briskly began tucking the blankets back in around him and retrieved the towel, which had dropped from her hands onto the bed once again somewhere in the middle of their conversation. "I want you to rest." She paused, noting the strangely crestfallen look on his face, and she remembered the look that had been on those same features mere minutes ago. The words he had said.

Hesitation gripped her for a moment. It would be cruel, to take advantage of his condition like this, but…to have such guilt clawing at one's heart…

Nobody had to live with that. Not if she could help it.

With a tenderness that she was not aware of, she pressed the damp cloth against his forehead.

"Don't fret. I forgive you."

The childish, baffled look had remained on his face through most of her words, but her final statement seemed to penetrate something in his consciousness, and his face suddenly cleared, replaced with a wave of relief so visibly powerful she could almost feel it herself. The words had felt so alien, so improper on her own tongue - words that were not hers, not meant to be hers, and were not her right to say - and yet, seeing him now, she knew it was the right thing to do.

As she watched, a small smile touched his lips.

"…Thanks, mom." The room was silent for awhile, and it took her a moment of staring to realize that his eyes had closed once again.

He was already fast asleep.

* * *

A/N: Well…this one's kinda self-explanatory, really. I was kind of working on atmosphere, mainly trying to somehow infuse the proper mood with the right descriptions and so on, and…I don't know. Kind of on the long side, but I guess it turned out okay. Haha, yes, I know that one sentence full of semicolons in the middle of the chapter is ridiculously long... :d

Constructive criticism or anything moderately equivalent is always helpful and very welcome. C'mon, I know you guys are out there…somewhere…just dying to tell me ways to improve, as I obviously need to… D:


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Disclaiming…………Disclamation successful.

* * *

**-Dislocate-**

_Def: to put or force something out of its usual place or position_

* * *

"Ah!"

The ground rushed up to meet her, and the impact came with a solid thump, one that resonated jarringly throughout the entirety of her small frame. No that it hurt, in particular. It had been years since she had registered any of the potential discomfort that might be had of such a minor thing as falling over. Concussions? Hardly.

There _was_ something that hurt, however, and it hardly took any time at all for her to find out just what. One twitch of her left leg, and the nausea-inducing sensation of mislaid bone grinding against unaccustomed muscle fairly assaulted her, stiffening jaw and hitching breath. It was a pain she knew all too well, after all, and had hoped not to experience again.

For a few moments she was content to lay there on her face, loath to arouse the pain again, for all her rigorous training in the ways of the unfeeling, and she vaguely wondered where she had went wrong. The positions had flowed out so well, as they had countless times before, each form and angle of limb executed to perfection ... or so she had thought. But, then again, this same incident had happened once before, long ago, upon her first week taking up the designated training ritual. The same thing had occurred - in the same leg, even. Something about the angle in which she would sometimes unconsciously twist it, or so Father had said ... she would have to remedy that, undoubtedly. In battle, she would have been as good as dead, for such a small mistake.

Standing up would be a good start towards that remedial, perhaps.

Frowning into the moist earth, she gathered the pool of her courage and forced her thoughts elsewhere, anywhere but in the disjointed area of her kneecap, where the problem was centered. With a smooth, abrupt motion, she stiffened her arms and pushed up into a kneeling position, careful to keep the injured leg as straight as possible.

Swiftly came sickening pain, the alarmed clamoring of her body that something was amiss in the afflicted limb, but she deftly ignored it as she had been painstakingly taught, and she ignored it well. Instead she turned herself over without a sound, even as the lame leg protested viciously, and cast out for something by which she might pull herself upright, though her searching hands and raking eyes found nothing within reach. She had chosen a cleared area in the midst of the woods to train in and, upon unwittingly incapacitating herself, had the luck of collapsing in the very center of the glade, far away from steadying limbs or bracing tree trunks.

But there was a way to correct the situation, of course. There was always a way, especially for a ninja. And to such a simple problem, at that. She had been groomed to face worse, surely.

Although, fortunately, she was soon completely spared the trouble of having to utilize any particular skill by the intervention of another individual.

"Hey!"

She turned, and a hand was already on the katana at her back, even as she recognized the voice as that of one of her comrades. Still unwilling to let go of the weapon, however, she watched warily as a form garbed in subdued shades of blue pushed his way through the remaining shrubs encircling the clearing, face half-shadowed by the slanting rays of the waning afternoon sunlight hidden in the canopy of the trees. At any rate he definitely wasn't an enemy, for she could easily spot the sharp flash of his eyes and the white splash of the sash at his throat, coupled with the gossamer glimmer of the string spanning the bow across his back, and that was enough for her to slowly release the katana from her grasp.

"What are you doing here?"

He paused two steps into the opening, eyes narrowing at her inquiry. Even in the half-light, his frown was quite evident.

"What am _I_ doing here? I was going to ask you the same question."

She regarded him with some trepidation. This would be her first real conversation with the person before her, in a sense. The little she'd gleamed from him in terms of personality consisted of an angry sort of restlessness, with his predominant moods prone to swaying easily into the territory of irritation or gloom, respectively. Neither of which had appealed to her as the compromising features of a potential friendship. Sharp feelings circled this young man like carrion birds looming over fallen prey, alarming and unpredictable, and she, who had been taught to shun emotion as a troublesome burden, found it uncomfortable to observe from afar. She knew him to be close companions with the leader of their party, but she often wondered how it had ever come to be, for the things that built their personalities were so different. Their swordsman's outgoing confidence and easy optimism seemed to chafe against this archer's aggressive haste and flighty temper, although the bond that held them together was equally evident, ties that had clearly been put to trial and grew all the stronger for it.

For the life of her she couldn't understand it, but she had not particularly bothered over it, for it was none of her business. Yet now she was confronted outright with an uncomfortable situation at hand, and she was being shown at her weakest.

Expression set in a guise of indifference, she shrugged at his accusation.

"I came here to train." Voice short, she glanced around briefly again. If only there were some way she could pull herself to her feet! Sitting on the ground for lack of the means to stand brought about a guise of helplessness, and she knew it and liked it even less. This day seemingly did not intend to discharge her in any good grace whatsoever.

"All the way out here alone?" Her adversary's eyebrows drew together sharply, his disapproval clear.

"You seem to favor that as well," she retorted, voice dry. Balling her hands into fists, she flexed her working leg experimentally, but knew it wouldn't be able to support her weight alone, to her dismay.

At her spoken observation his frown grew even heavier, gaze stiffening into a glare.

"That's different! I know I can defend myself, but you ... you're -"

He hesitated and stopped short then, visibly clamping down on his words before his sentence was finished, although she was not sure why. She had a notion he might have caught something of the look on her face, which was a small comfort. At least he knew the nature of pride, a sacred ground to any who treasured it enough. And he had seen her in battle already. They both knew as much.

The short, terse silence in the wake of his cut-off statement hung uncertainly in the air for a moment, and although his general expression did not shift, she could sense something change in his demeanor as a whole. A heaviness that suddenly lightened, ever so slightly. An invisible glower that had melted into a vaguely annoyed gesture instead, as different revelations about the situation came to light, revelations that made it look a bit better in spite of his first opinions.

Abruptly, the tack of the conversation was shifted as his gaze moved from her face to her leg.

"…Hey, what happened? Are you hurt?"

For a split second she had half a mind to lie and stoutly refuse the indication of such a preposterous thing, just to spite him. But the childish urge died even as it arose, crushed beneath teachings drilled into her from her youngest years, teachings of honesty and a flat bluntness in address of all matters save those most vital.

"I have dislocated my leg," she replied simply, rather as if she were stating something about the color of the leaves on the trees or the balminess of the weather.

And almost before she could blink, he was suddenly beside her, grasping her by an arm and hauling her to her feet, to her surprise and alarm.

"Dammit, why didn't you say that earlier instead of just sitting there? Come on, before it gets dark out here." He glared at her as he pulled her upright and remained with a steadying hand on her shoulder, his irritation clear even when he was rising to her aid, watching as she swayed a little and then leaned away from her favored leg, as was proper. "Think you can make it back to the camp? I doubt I'd be the right one to take care of this sort of thing - I'm no healer."

She stared back at him with slightly widened eyes, immensely baffled by his conduct, but doing her best not to let it show. She wasn't sure if she was succeeding.

"…I believe so. I have walked with worse." And then her shock receded, and she remembered what had caused it in the first place. "But you should not help me. I can go back on my -"

"Not on my watch, you aren't," he snapped, before she could even finish the sentence, and the words were uttered so sternly and finally that she immediately fell silent, quite humbled. She risked a glance at his face, but the mask of irritation he wore made whatever he was truly thinking unreadable.

And yet, somehow, his countenance seemed to have softened even more, into something almost…concerned. A kind, warm sort of concern, a concern that he had apparently once been very used to feeling towards another person. A person like herself, in age if nothing else. She knew its kind instantly, for she had heard it before, behind the indifferent tones of her own parent's words; behind the kindness of the others she now traveled with.

The kind of concern elders feel for the impressionable child.

It leaked through into his voice as he spoke.

"Now, seeing as that's settled, how bad is your leg?"

"It hurts, but I will be fine."

"You sure?"

"Very."

His eyes narrowed again at her bluntness, but he seemed to detect the honesty she had implied as well, and the severity of his expression finally seemed to ease somewhat, as the rest of him had before it. The mask of irritation was still there, but now it was thinner, faintly alluding to something more underneath.

"Alright, then. Let's go."

The pain arose again in a jaw-grinding ache as she half-limped into movement, her company supporting her with every step.

But together they ignored it, and ignored it well.

* * *

A/N: I'm pretty sure Suzu and Ami are the same age. And I'm also pretty sure that Chester has a soft spot for little kids. Although I doubt this sort of relationship would grow in an instant, what with Suzu being a hardened ninja and Chester striking me as the kind of person who likes to hide his true feelings a lot (and fails miserably most of the time, might I add XD), it seems pretty ideal to me, and very plausible. That guy really needs a replacement little sister. His character is just screaming for it. :\ It's just kinda…I dunno, one of those qualities that would make him more complete as a person to me, even if we only ever really saw him in full big-brother mode for the first fifteen minutes of the game. T.T He strikes me as the ideal elder sibling, and any elder sibling needs a younger person to take care of, or a big hunk of their character goes missing.

And I'm just rambling on and on about stuff that's probably not making sense to anybody…

Hopefully the characterization was alright. This was my first time writing both of these characters, and though I think I have a relatively good grasp of their personalities, you never know. Any suggestions or constructive criticism is always greatly appreciated. :)

Oh, and I'd like to thank those that have reviewed so far - mainly **WildfireDreams **and **Whatever2ya**. I really do appreciate you guys' support, although real life often prevents me from replying to your reviews. Just know that you're both very appreciated! :D


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